


A Study in Strokes

by spatialsoloist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Swimming, John is very calm...too calm..., Lestrade still wants to punch Sherlock's lights out, M/M, Moriarty is a silly leery villian, Olympics!AU, Sherlock is cutely snobbish, and hot swimmer bodies, nobody jumps off anything except starting blocks ha ha ha, that's nothing new really, there are speedos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialsoloist/pseuds/spatialsoloist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to go to the Olympics and win. Sherlock does too, with the added factor of beating Moriarty soundly with an untouchable time. And Lestrade?</p><p>Lestrade just wants them to shut up and get into the pool, damn it.</p><p>Also, waxing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Strokes

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the 2012 London Olympics and John, Sherlock and Moriarty are breaststroke swimmers competing in the 200m event.
> 
> Sam is a genius for coming up with this and her art is amazing and meanwhile I am emotionally invested in the idea of Benedict's booty in speedos *✧₊✪͡◡ू✪͡
> 
> ...
> 
> -STRIPS-

 

[Sixteen years ago]

 

When boys his age were gearing up to play football, rugby, baseball or basketball, John had, as his mother so eloquently put it, ‘turned his round nose right up at those games and leapt into a pool instead’.

 

Well, she wasn’t exactly wrong, especially about the nose bit.

 

It took the better half of a year for John to fully convince his parents that no, he didn’t like sports that happened on land, no, he didn’t like sports with flying spherical objects, and yes, he wanted to swim. Swimming was what did it for him. Water was his oasis, his sanctuary, the one place where he could completely let loose and feel completely at home.

 

His dad, a seasoned rugby player from his old university, hadn’t exactly been pleased to find that John really wasn’t interested in taking up the mantle, but went out and purchased a pair of slim swimming trunks, goggles and a swim cap nonetheless. John remembered his classmates laughing their bums off when he first donned his attire and hovered nervously at the side of the public pool, all of eight years old and still unsure if he’d made the right choice.

 

When John turned fourteen and had just shattered the national youth breaststroke record with an all-new personal best, it was immensely satisfying to know that not a single soul dared to laugh at him in his speedo.

 

That, and the trophy was pretty damn shiny.

 

+

 

When Sherlock was young, it was also established at a very early stage that he sucked at sports save for a very select few. Lacrosse had ended up in a bloody nose, ball hockey had resulted in a bloody lip, and, well, let’s not even get into how bad of a choice archery turned out to be. Fortunately it was perfectly acceptable not to be athletic in his family given that the Holmes had made their legacy in government and political work, as his father liked to bring up every once in a while.

 

But smart as he was in his studies, Sherlock didn’t like sitting still. The notion of _not_ moving around made him uncomfortable, like an unfortunately positioned itch that one could not scratch in polite company. And if Sherlock wasn’t born with any particular natural talent in sports, he managed to scrape by just fine with studying the science behind the perfect form.

 

For a while track and field had been his muse because any idiot could run a lap or two and it wasn’t overly difficult to build up his stamina. Sherlock made up a tough training regime for himself after many weeks of relentless calculations of what kind of work outs, diets or sportswear would give him optimal results. He jogged every morning before the rest of his family woke up, brought ankle weights and stayed on a strict athlete’s meal plan, forgoing all kinds of sweets and soft drinks (Mycroft had been horrified when he learned that his younger brother actively _avoided_ cake).

 

One day, while on his way home from middle school, Sherlock deviated from his usual path and ended up circling near his neighborhood pool, and that was when he saw it— the most _beautiful_ sport in the entire world.

 

There it was, a fifty metre pool filled with sparkling, crystal clear blue water, bright red and yellow flags hung up near the end of each lane, stark white starting blocks with bold numbers stuck to the side. And then there were the swimmers, in their slim-fitting bathing suits, sleek swim caps and reflective goggles. Sherlock remembered stopping by the windows, watching with his mouth hanging slightly open as a young boy his age, in bright red swim trunks, pushed off the starting block and sailed into the pool in a beautiful arc.

 

It was perfect.

 

+

 

When Sherlock finally attended St. Bartholomew’s Private Secondary School three years later, it did not have a swim team— but like that would ever stop him from abusing his relations to Mycroft and his hotshot politician father to get what he wanted.

 

The only problem was recruitment because not a lot of the students at St. Bart’s were athletically inclined and Sherlock couldn’t force people to join. At the rate things were going, though, he should probably start considering that option.

 

Fortunately for him (and the students of the school it seemed), there was a single third-year student standing on the pool deck on the day of tryouts. The guy was about a head shorter than him with closely cropped sandy blonde hair, permanently furrowed eyebrows and a pair of bright red swim trunks.

 

“You,” Sherlock blurted out rather rudely, and the other student raised an eyebrow.

 

“Me.”

 

“Yes. I remember you.”

 

“Uh, have we met?”

 

“I saw you swimming three years ago at the Sports Complex in London Centre,” Sherlock said. “You won first place in breaststroke and broke the youth national record.”

 

The guy’s other eyebrow went up. “Did you look me up or something? That’s creepy. I don’t even know your full name.”

 

Sherlock huffed. “I saw you swim that day. It was rather impressive. In fact, after watching your race I myself decided to pursue swimming too, as it is quite a beautiful sport and you looked quite amazing competing in the pool.”

 

Sandy-hair guy looked surprised. “Oh. Um, thanks?”

 

Blue-green eyes narrowed. “But you haven’t swam for a while,” Sherlock diagnosed, giving the guy’s nonetheless fit for a sweeping gaze. He sees broad shoulders, a six-pack, sharp hipbones and thighs that looked like they could snap a man’s neck in half. There was also a scar on the right knee, about three inches in length, and it looked as thought it was just starting to fade away. “Your knee is weak and your powerful kick is hindered, thus leaving you stranded in the fast-paced world of swimming. An old injury, am I correct?”

 

The guy’s face had closed off like a trap, but his voice was level when he replied, “You know, it’s generally rude to stare.”

 

“I don’t stare, I observe.”

 

“Same fucking difference.”

 

“Your injury is psychosomatic,” Sherlock said firmly. “You’re hoping to overcome this fear by getting back into the pool before your prime time is over.”

 

“And at the rate this conversation is going I’m going to be eighty before I get into the pool.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t help the grin that spread on his face. “Sherlock Holmes, breaststroke,” he said, sticking his hand out. After a moment, sandy-hair guy shook it.

 

“John Watson,” John replied, pumping their hands up and down. A smirk crossed his face, and he already looked more at home than he did five minutes ago. “Funny thing, I swim breaststroke too.”

 

Sherlock all but beamed.

 

+

 

[Four years later]

 

Greg Lestrade was yelling something at Sherlock as he neared the end of the pool, his face red and veins popping in his temples as he clutched at a stopwatch, but Sherlock couldn’t hear him. The roar of the pool and the water rushing around his ears deafened him as Sherlock arms pulled through the water, back muscles squeezing together as his elbows tucked in. His shoulders rose up, baring his broad chest as his mouth opened in an ‘O’ shape as he drew in a ragged breath and whipped his legs around, propelling him swiftly forward. His hands shot forwards, piercing the water as he sunk back down under the waves, blissful silence washing over him as he straightened his arms. His heart was pumping briskly trying to keep up with his strokes, and Sherlock surface again, sucking air in greedily. The steady rhythm of his movements drove him right up to the wall, and when his hands slapped against the slippery surface Lestrade mashed the buttons down on the stopwatch.

 

“What’s the time?” Sherlock demanded at once, panting hard and yanking his goggles off his head.

 

“2:09:48,” Lestrade said at once, and Sherlock made an irritable noise as he chucked his goggles into the lane next to him. “It’s your fault for not listening to my advice, Holmes! I kept shouting for you to extend your glide, but no! You wouldn’t listen! You never listen!”

 

“How on earth could I have possibly heard you while I was in the pool?” Sherlock demanded, glaring up at the Olympic team’s coach. “Don’t waste your breath, Lestrade. You’re an old geezer.”

 

“Oi, take that _back_ , you wanker!” Lestrade hissed, cheeks turning red. Before the coach could actualize his dream of strangling his best and brightest athlete, Sherlock’s goggles suddenly went flying into his swim cap clad head. He made an indignant noise and scowled deeply at the swimmer in the next lane. John was leaning against the edge of the pool, his expression casually neutral as he pulled his own cap and goggles off his head.

 

“Why were your goggles floating in my lane, Sherlock?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock muttered, lying blatantly through his teeth. “What’s your time?”

 

John looked up at Sally Donovan for confirmation, and Sherlock already disliked the little smirk she had on her face as she read John’s time out. “2:08:01,” Sally said smugly. “Good job, John.”

 

“Yes, good job, John,” Sherlock muttered, and John reached over to smack Sherlock lightly on the back of the head.

 

“Stop complaining, you idiot. If you held your glide for a fraction of a second longer you’d cover more distance. You’re rushing.”

 

Sherlock scoffed and looked away, his expression dangerously similar to a pouting toddler’s, but his tense shoulders eased slightly when he replied, “Yeah, I got it.”

 

Lestrade, on the other hand, looked like he was about to have an aneurism.

 

“ _You’re listening to John but not me? I said the exact same thing!_ ”

 

“Boyfriend rights,” John snickered. “It trumps coach rights, apparently.”

 

Lestrade groaned. “John, please tell your boyfriend he’s an absolute bonehead and has just earned himself another 200m before the end of practice.”

 

“What is this, high school?” Sherlock demanded, but John simply looked over and said, “You heard Lestrade. Get on it.”

 

“Damn you, John Watson,” Sherlock growled, angrily yanking his goggles back over his swim cap.

 

“Moving your arse, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, Holmes, I really don’t need to enunciate why I’m being such a hardass over this, right? You know what’s coming up in three months’ time.”

 

Sherlock glared like a petulant teenager, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

 

“I also shouldn’t have to say that you and John are also Britain’s best shot at medals this year. Play your cards right, boys, and we’ll have double or even triple medals to show off after the games.”

 

At those words, John glanced over at Sherlock and flashed him a sharp grin. Sherlock returned it earnestly, barely able to curb his excitement.

 

This was it— the goal they’d scrawled alongside their workout routine on whiteboard at their high school’s pool and one they’d been working towards since the faraway dream had been concocted from a mixture of too much pool water gone up the nose and naïve teenage aspirations.

 

They were going to the London Olympics.

 

+

 

Jim Moriarty was, as far as teammates go, highly unpleasant, highly annoying and so highly cocksure of himself Sherlock was almost certain that Moriarty had managed to give himself a boner once by looking at his own reflection in the locker rooms. That probably ranks as one of the top weirdest things he’s ever come across before, and Sherlock had had to help Mycroft set up a treadmill in his new apartment once after graduation.

 

The dark haired man was sitting on one of the benches in the change room when Sherlock and John staggered in after practice, legs and back muscles aching. Moriarty wasn’t even changed for practice; he was wearing a navy V-neck and a pair of light beige pants, and had earbuds in his ears. He paused his music when he spotted them though.

 

“Hiya,” he drawled, leaning back. “How’s my favourite swimming couple doing?”

 

“Buzz of, Moriarty,” John said lightly as he yanked his locker open. Moriarty pulled a kicked puppy face at once.

 

“Aw, Johnny boy, you don’t mean that.”

 

“I mean every word I say. Now go away if you’re not here to practice at all.”

 

“I hardly need as much practice as either of you do,” Moriarty sneered. “Caught a glimpse of that last lap, Holmes. You need to work on your glide.”

 

“I’m surprised you saw anything, given how scarcely you ever come to the pool,” Sherlock sneered. He collected his toiletries and slammed his locker shut, making the metal rattle and echo in the silence room. “Now do what John said before I make you leave the facilities.”

 

“Oooh,” Moriarty hummed as he got to his feet. “ _Make_ me, _mmm_.”

 

Sherlock’s expression darkened, but John was already stepping between them, nudging Sherlock towards the showers with his elbow.

 

“Shut up, Moriarty. And go wash up, Sherlock, you stink of chlorine.”

 

“You do too,” Sherlock muttered, but he stomped off anyway. John glanced back at Moriarty, who had dug a stick of gum out of his pocket and slotted it rather suggestively between his teeth. He stood at least a couple of inches over John, but that didn’t intimidate him in the least.

 

“I don’t care whether or not you come to practice, Moriarty, but keep your trash talk out of this building or I’ll fix your jaw up for you,” John said quietly. “Am I clear?”

 

“How’re you gonna fix it?” Moriarty leered, sucking his gum between his teeth and sliding his tongue lewdly over it. “With your lips, maybe?”

 

John sneered. “My fist, more like,” he replied, and casually flexed his bicep for good measure before turning his back on his teammate in favour for the showers. Sherlock was already surrounded by steam and a gush of water, but John could see the grin on his face when he got chose the stall next to his boyfriend's.

 

“Smooth,” Sherlock muttered as John turned the faucets. John held off replying until he heard footsteps and the change room door opening and closing before snickering to himself.

 

“Somebody really needs to knock him down a peg or two.”

 

“Knocking him down a couple of flight of stairs might be more effective,” Sherlock suggested instead.

 

“That would be a sight for sore eyes. I for one would not be completely inclined to call an ambulance for him though,” John mused. “Honestly, I hate guys like him, the ones who have a lick of natural talent and instantly look down on normal people who had to work their way up.”

 

“Not that his times are much higher than ours, though,” Sherlock pointed out. “What was the last one Sally recorded?”

 

“2:07:56,” John sighed. “Still two seconds faster than our time today. That’s the difference between first, second and third right there.”

 

“Hmph,” Sherlock grumbled as he stuck his head under the showerhead to wash the shampoo out. “We’re at the stage where our positions are fluctuating quite frequently. You’ve finished with times like Moriarty too, and so have I.”

 

“So it’ll be left up to who’s in the best condition on the day of the race,” John said dryly.

 

“Yup,” Sherlock shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna take any of his shit sitting down. I’m gonna take gold and wipe the slimy pool floor with his face once the Olympics are over— just you wait.”

 

“Can’t wait,” John laughed, leaning over the stall to grin at his boyfriend. “But you’ll have to snatch the gold from my cold, dead body first, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“We’ll see about that,” Sherlock retorted, and ducked his head to press his lips against John’s, like one of the many light kisses they’ve shared with one another since Sherlock’s spluttering confession in high school.

 

+

 

[Five months later]

 

 _Thump_.

 

“Ow, John, watch it!”

 

“Sorry, sorry— stop wiggling like that Sherlock, sheesh—”

 

“No, no, don’t put your hand there, wait—!”

 

 _Bang_.

 

“Ahhhnng, that’s hot, that’s really hot, John, damn it—”

 

“Hold _still_ , Sherlock, god, don’t rub that against your chest!”

 

“But it’s already all over me and it’s sticky as hell, damn it. We shouldn’t waste any of it, you know—”

 

“Fine, fine, whatever, just stop smearing your finger through it—”

 

“ENOUGH!”

 

An enraged voice suddenly thundered through the walls, and a moment later a door slammed and footsteps thudded outside before somebody began pounding on the hotel door.

 

“OI, LOVE BIRDS, CAN YOU KEEP IT THE _FUCK_ DOWN?!” Moriarty hollered through the door. “I’m trying to get some down time here, so could you keep whatever kinky crap you’re into to yourselves?!”

 

John sighed and stood up, carefully avoiding the sticky mess on the floor as he opened the hotel door. A furious Moriarty was standing outside with Anderson, another teammate, hovering disinterestedly against the wall.

 

“What’re you going off about, Moriarty? We’re not doing anything.”

 

“Don’t even lie, Watson,” Moriarty sneered. “Those noises were obscene. You two are a disgrace.”

 

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” John said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“What else am I supposed to think?” Moriarty screeched, and John rolled his eyes as he threw open the door to reveal a shirtless Sherlock lounging on the bed with a towel tucked beneath him. The hair on his chest was in varying stages of thickness and odd patchiness.

 

“What…?”

 

“I’m waxing his god damned chest, Moriarty,” John deadpanned. “I spilled the wax on Sherlock and the floor by accident. Unless you’re here to help me clean up, just shut up and go back to your room, okay?”

 

Silence fell over them, at least, until Anderson yawned pointedly and said, “So they’re not having sex, Moriarty, so what. Can I go back now?”

 

“Do whatever you want,” Moriarty spat, and he glared at John. “Look, Watson, if this is some elaborate plan to throw me off my game before the finals the day after tomorrow—”

 

“Weren’t you the one who claimed nobody could beat you now that you’re in top form?” John cut in. “You’re a smart athlete, Moriarty. You know the pressures of competition. D’you really think I’ve got so much time on my hands that I’d cook up little plans to irritate you before finals?”

 

Moriarty sneered. “I’m going to flatten you and Holmes, Watson. Just you wait.”

 

“Sure,” John shrugged, and shut the door in Moriarty’s face. On the bed, Sherlock burst into a fit of giggles.

 

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said mildly. “I know you were yelling like that just to rile him up.”

 

“It worked, didn’t it?”

 

“Don’t resort to something so petty, you idiot,” John said, smacking Sherlock in the arm as he picked up one of the strips and flattened it against the cooling wax on his boyfriend’s chest. “Are you ready for the race?”

 

“Don’t ask dumb questions, John,” Sherlock muttered, catching John’s wrist with his long, slender fingers. “This is what we said we’d achieve back when we were newbies at St. Bart’s. We trained hard, won races, lost races, and trained even harder. We landed spots on the team and Lestrade and Donovan for coaches, and despite some more lacking characteristics I can’t say they haven’t been helpful to our career. We’re going to win, John. We’re going to win the Olympics.”

 

John smiled, and curled his fingers around the strip of paper. “Damn straight we are, Sherlock. It was a promise to our younger selves, and we’re gonna fulfill it.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock smiled, and relaxed back against the bed.

 

“Oh, and one more thing…” John said, trailing off at the end.

 

“Eh?” Sherlock blinked, looking up. John’s eyes glinted devilishly.

 

“Don’t tense up, Sherlock.”

 

 _Rip_.

 

“Ugghhhwaharguh! John! _It burns!_ ”

 

+

 

And the final race was, as John had predicted, a matter of who was in the best condition overall. The three of them didn’t lack in their abilities, but the matter of confidence seemed to suit Sherlock best. He snapped his goggles over his head and stepped up on the starting block with ease, his jaw set and his eyes on the end of the lane. John smiled to himself as he pressed the goggles into his eyes until he nearly saw supernovas. His heart pounded as he pulled himself up, with Sherlock on his left and Moriarty on his right, and bent down to grasp the edges of the block as the judge’s voice sounded through the microphone.

 

“Swimmers, take your marks—”

 

A pause, and John’s muscles tensed with years and years of ingrained training.

 

_Beep!_

 

The buzzer sounded, and his legs pushed off, his arms fell into place, and the water rushed up to meet him and then—

 

Bliss. 

 

+

 

With a time of 2:02:18, Sherlock Holmes emerged from the depths of the Olympic pool as the gold medalist for the London Olympics in the Men’s 200m Breaststroke and John, lungs burning and adrenaline rushing through his veins, snatched silver with a time of 2:03:55. He grasped at the slippery wall, heaving for breath as he looked at Sherlock in the lane next to him, equally drained but elated with his success. John couldn’t help it— once they climbed of the pool he immediately reached over and dragged Sherlock into a bone-crushing hug, panting into his boyfriend’s ear, “You did it, you did it Sherlock, you won, you really did it, damn you fast son of a bitch, you made it, you won—”

 

“Idiot,” Sherlock whispered, back, tightening his arms around John. “You did it too. We’ve both won.”

 

John drew back and laughed, even though his legs felt like lead and his arms were bricks yanking on his sockets. He could hear the spectators cheering, see Lestrade and Donavan hug each other and jump up and down, and Sherlock’s smile— it was a soft, gentle smile, full of admiration and happiness and pride, and it made John feel like he could float to the top of the stadium and never come down.

 

(Moriarty, for all his bravado and swagger, settled comfortably in third place with a time of 2:05:34)

 

In that moment, satisfaction was best defined by their positions on the podium, arm in arm with one another, and the faraway dream they’d thought up of so many years ago actualized with gleaming gold and silver around their necks.

 

+

 

[Six hours after Men’s 200m Breaststroke Finals]

 

The television on the stand in the hotel room was blaring, flashing colours across the darkened room, and Sherlock was on his side, laughing himself stupid as John stared in open-mouthed horror at the shot of himself and Sherlock talking together at the end of the race.

 

“Oh my god,” John groaned, covering his face. “I can’t believe the scores covered our swim suits. It looks like we’re naked now!”

 

“We’re already always one scrap of material away from being naked,” Sherlock snickered, sitting up. “There’s hardly anything nobody hasn’t seen already.”

 

“Yes, but it still looks like I’ve got nothing on at all,” John grumbled, jabbing the remote to shut the television off. “What a bad coincidence.”

 

“Well, to be honest, there’s nothing I haven’t already seen before, so,” Sherlock smirked, and John chucked a pillow at him.

 

“This is starting to sound like bad porn, Sherlock. Stop that.”

 

“Wouldn’t that be a great way to fund the team, though?” Sherlock asked, grinning as he eased John back onto the hotel bed and settled suggestively between his legs. “I can guarantee we’ll make a massive profit with just a couple of videos— the amount of girls I heard screaming when we got out of the pool should be a good indication of that.”

 

“Shut _up_ , Sherlock,” John groaned, rolling his eyes even as he reached over to push Sherlock’s t-shirt up to reveal a muscular abdomen. His fingers trailed a little lower, and John frowned as he felt a light fuzziness below his boyfriend’s bellybutton.

 

“I think hair’s grown back again, Sherlock. We should probably wax it off.”

 

“Oh my god, could you _not_ talk about waxing while we’re about to make out?” Sherlock demanded in exasperation. “Pain kills boners, you know.”

 

“Alright, alright!” John laughed. Then, the corners of his mouth turned up into a rather devilish smirk as he dropped his hands even lower, massaging at the growing bulge between Sherlock’s legs. “Well… maybe we can cover this area with something that isn’t wax, but equally sticky. What d’you say?”

 

“I think,” Sherlock hummed, his voice pitching deeply as he spread his legs wider, “That’s an _excellent_ idea.”

 

+

 

Needless to say, in the room next door, Moriarty (and Anderson, by proxy) didn’t manage catch a wink of sleep at all.

 

+

 

_End_

 

+

[Voodooling's Art](http://voodooling.tumblr.com/post/83072546794/lets-draw-sherlock-alternative-professions)

[Olympics or Gay Porn?](http://www.buzzfeed.com/stacylambe/olympics-or-gay-porn)

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I think I spent too much time inhaling pool water as a kid too. What is this madness?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
